Rasputin.’
‘Yes,’ whispered the Tsar. ‘I have already heard. The icon is missing.’
With a deep sigh, he sat down at his desk, a solid slab of walnut supported by two heavy, engraved posts which ran the full width of the desk and which were joined by a foot rail carved in a spiral like the tusk of a narwhal. Towering behind him stood a grey stone fireplace, with a screen placed in front of the hearth since no fires were lit in summer time. ‘Alexandra informed me as soon as I arrived. When I sent you to persuade Rasputin to have the icon returned to the cathedral, I was only thinking about what would happen if people knew it had been entrusted to his safekeeping. I never thought someone would actually dare to steal it!’
‘I must tell you, Majesty, the Empress seemed anxious that I not pursue this case.’
The Tsar brushed his fingers along the line of his jaw, rustling his thumb through his moustache. ‘She doesn’t want Grigori dragged into it, but I told her it was too late for that now.’
‘Do you intend to keep the theft a secret?’ asked Pekkala.
‘No,’ the Tsar said abruptly. ‘I know that is what Alexandra would like, but the truth would come out sooner or later. What if the icon surfaces in the hands of some unscrupulous art dealer, or on some auction block outside the country? How would we explain that to the people of Russia? I told the Empress it was better just to tell the truth, and to let the world know that the Emerald Eye is now on the trail of the thief. From this moment on, The Shepherd ’s safe recovery is to be your primary concern.’
‘Yes, Majesty,’ replied Pekkala.
‘Good evening, Inspector,’ said a woman’s voice.
Both men turned to see the Empress standing in the doorway. She wore a lavender silk robe over her nightdress. Stripped of its daytime mask of cosmetics, the features of her face looked small and blurred.
‘Did we wake you, my dear?’ asked the Tsar, rising to his feet.
‘It appears that you have had a narrow escape,’ she remarked to Pekkala, ignoring the Tsar’s question.
‘Not for the first time,’ he replied.
‘The Inspector was just making his report,’ said the Tsar.
‘I know why he is here!’ said the Tsarina as she levelled a finger at Pekkala. ‘I warned you before to be careful, and I will warn you once again. If your inquiries bring harm to Grigori, you shall answer for that before God and, as you yourself have learned this night, the angels he sends to wreak his vengeance will not show mercy, even to the favourite of the Tsar!’
‘Majesty, you may be right,’ answered Pekkala, ‘but I have yet to see an angel with a butcher’s knife.’
*
On the morning of 21 June 1915, Pekkala entered the shop of Melzer, the knife-maker, and was perplexed to find that there wasn’t a knife in sight.
Aside from several different blocks of wood for making knife handles, as well as a pile of oblong metal bars, from which the blades themselves would be fashioned, the shop was devoid of anything which might have been for sale.
Melzer himself stood behind the counter on which the bars and blocks of wood lay neatly stacked. He was a short, aggressive-looking man, with a redness to his face which made his skin appear as if it had been scoured with a wire brush. There was no hair to speak of on his head and, for a man who specialised in blades, he had made a poor job of shaving his chin. This contradiction did not catch Pekkala by surprise. He had known cobblers who shuffled about their workshops in shoes so ragged and worn down that, if those shoes had been brought in for repair, they themselves would have refused to work on them. Likewise, the tailor Linsky, who provided Pekkala with his eccentrically heavy clothes, sometimes greeted customers wearing only a nightshirt.
‘I do custom work,’ explained Melzer, as if reading Pekkala’s mind. ‘By the time a knife has been made, it already belongs to someone else, so, in effect,
‘Yes,’ whispered the Tsar. ‘I have already heard. The icon is missing.’
With a deep sigh, he sat down at his desk, a solid slab of walnut supported by two heavy, engraved posts which ran the full width of the desk and which were joined by a foot rail carved in a spiral like the tusk of a narwhal. Towering behind him stood a grey stone fireplace, with a screen placed in front of the hearth since no fires were lit in summer time. ‘Alexandra informed me as soon as I arrived. When I sent you to persuade Rasputin to have the icon returned to the cathedral, I was only thinking about what would happen if people knew it had been entrusted to his safekeeping. I never thought someone would actually dare to steal it!’
‘I must tell you, Majesty, the Empress seemed anxious that I not pursue this case.’
The Tsar brushed his fingers along the line of his jaw, rustling his thumb through his moustache. ‘She doesn’t want Grigori dragged into it, but I told her it was too late for that now.’
‘Do you intend to keep the theft a secret?’ asked Pekkala.
‘No,’ the Tsar said abruptly. ‘I know that is what Alexandra would like, but the truth would come out sooner or later. What if the icon surfaces in the hands of some unscrupulous art dealer, or on some auction block outside the country? How would we explain that to the people of Russia? I told the Empress it was better just to tell the truth, and to let the world know that the Emerald Eye is now on the trail of the thief. From this moment on, The Shepherd ’s safe recovery is to be your primary concern.’
‘Yes, Majesty,’ replied Pekkala.
‘Good evening, Inspector,’ said a woman’s voice.
Both men turned to see the Empress standing in the doorway. She wore a lavender silk robe over her nightdress. Stripped of its daytime mask of cosmetics, the features of her face looked small and blurred.
‘Did we wake you, my dear?’ asked the Tsar, rising to his feet.
‘It appears that you have had a narrow escape,’ she remarked to Pekkala, ignoring the Tsar’s question.
‘Not for the first time,’ he replied.
‘The Inspector was just making his report,’ said the Tsar.
‘I know why he is here!’ said the Tsarina as she levelled a finger at Pekkala. ‘I warned you before to be careful, and I will warn you once again. If your inquiries bring harm to Grigori, you shall answer for that before God and, as you yourself have learned this night, the angels he sends to wreak his vengeance will not show mercy, even to the favourite of the Tsar!’
‘Majesty, you may be right,’ answered Pekkala, ‘but I have yet to see an angel with a butcher’s knife.’
*
On the morning of 21 June 1915, Pekkala entered the shop of Melzer, the knife-maker, and was perplexed to find that there wasn’t a knife in sight.
Aside from several different blocks of wood for making knife handles, as well as a pile of oblong metal bars, from which the blades themselves would be fashioned, the shop was devoid of anything which might have been for sale.
Melzer himself stood behind the counter on which the bars and blocks of wood lay neatly stacked. He was a short, aggressive-looking man, with a redness to his face which made his skin appear as if it had been scoured with a wire brush. There was no hair to speak of on his head and, for a man who specialised in blades, he had made a poor job of shaving his chin. This contradiction did not catch Pekkala by surprise. He had known cobblers who shuffled about their workshops in shoes so ragged and worn down that, if those shoes had been brought in for repair, they themselves would have refused to work on them. Likewise, the tailor Linsky, who provided Pekkala with his eccentrically heavy clothes, sometimes greeted customers wearing only a nightshirt.
‘I do custom work,’ explained Melzer, as if reading Pekkala’s mind. ‘By the time a knife has been made, it already belongs to someone else, so, in effect,
Similar Books
